


The Big Bad

by ashamedbliss



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: 2Spooky, Action/Adventure, Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Car Chases, Drama Llama, Fist Fights, Guns, Halloween, Love/Hate, M/M, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Scary, Spooky, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 23:31:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5109521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashamedbliss/pseuds/ashamedbliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s October and the Los Santos air has chilled by a few degrees, the first sign of a new season. Michael’s beginning to notice that Trevor disappears off the radar entirely for a couple of days each month. The crew had just pulled off The Big One, and Michael finally has time to start putting the pieces of the puzzle together, to work out the mystery of Trevor Philips.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Big Bad

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my god, I did it, I caved and wrote a Trikey fic. Huge huge thank you to my beta [grandthieves](http://grandthieves.tumblr.com/) for being an absolute BABE and correcting all of my mistakes/pointing out that I'm so British it hurts. Thank you! Also thanks to everyone on tumblr who pushed me to actually do this. Happy Halloween and I hope you enjoy!

Michael stares down at his iFruit phone in his hand, looking at the long list of unreturned calls he’s made to Trevor. He’s not worried; Trevor normally goes off the radar for a couple of days every now and then, but it’s been nearly a week now, and alright, he’s a _little_ worried.

“Let him rot in hell,” Amanda says as she walks into the kitchen. Michael pockets his phone and turns in his chair to look at his wife. “He’s a big boy and he can look after himself. If he wants to smoke himself to death he can do just that.”

“Baby, please, he’s my best friend,” Michael says, and a feeling of pride swells in his chest. They _are_ best friends now, bound by The Big One and the trip back to Ludendorff and everything in between.

It didn’t make Amanda hate Trevor any less, but it’s a start.

Amanda sighs, crossing the room to stand behind her husband and starts rubbing his shoulders. Michael turns his head and sees she’s wearing her wedding ring again, causing a queer feeling to roll around in his stomach. “For a bank robber, you have a pretty big heart,” she says softly, digging her thumbs into the knots of Michael’s back. He relaxes, but only a little. “I know you care about him, for some crazy reason, just...” she sighs. “Just let him do his thing, yeah? Don’t make it your concern. Like I said, he can look after himself.”

Michael snorts. “Yeah, right, have you seen the state of his trailer? Actually, nah, you don’t wanna see it, it’s fuckin’ gross.” He turns to look up at Amanda and rests a hand over hers. “If I don’t hear from him by tomorrow evening, I’m going up first thing the next day.”

Amanda rolls her eyes, turning to leave the room. “Whatever. Just don’t bring him back here. I’m pretty sure he has fleas.”

“ _Babe_ ,” Michael drawls, but it’s without heat and Amanda’s already gone. He looks at his phone again before leaving it on the table, getting up to move to the sofa and put on an old favourite. He needs to escape all these worries in his head about Trevor, even if just for a couple of hours.

Trevor sends him a misspelled, caps lock text the following morning to tell Michael he’s a complete girl for worrying. Michael finds himself smiling at the message.

*

The days begin to blur a little, and Michael finds himself itching for something to do. The excitement of the past few months is just a distant blur now. Even though he still regularly hangs out with Franklin, Michael can feel himself settling into a routine and it’s... _sickening_. He goes to the studios at least twice a week; they’re already working on the sequel to Meltdown and although Solomon is happy with Michael’s work, it just doesn’t quite consume his time like it used to. Without family trouble to untangle or a psychopathic friend around to be a handler for, Michael finds himself at a loose end. It gets to the point where he has to _beg_ Tracey and Jimmy to help him carve the pumpkins for their front porch, and even they are worried enough to ask him what’s wrong.

One evening, Michael finds himself to be the only De Santa stuck in the house. While Tracey is out partying with her friends from school, Franklin is taking Jimmy for a drive in his new car, and Amanda is at her new spinning class (her instructor is an insanely hot blonde chick, and Michael finds he wouldn’t mind that much if they _did_ fuck, because the image is pretty erotic), Michael is sitting on the sofa with a generous glass of whiskey in his hand. So much for having friends. With Franklin busy, Trevor would be Michael’s next option, but Michael hasn’t seen Trevor for a long while. Well, not since that sunset over Paleto Bay. All he’s received recently from Trevor is a string of nearly illegible texts, but never any calls.

That was the thing that _really_ worried Michael; during their heists, they were always calling each other, never texting. It sounded like Trevor was hiding something now.

He’d received the last text from Trevor on October 3, over three weeks ago now, but Michael hadn’t had the balls to reply. What was there to say? That he was _worried_ about Trevor? That’d go down like a lead fucking balloon. He continues to scroll through his recent calls, and furrows his brow at what he finds. He’d been calling Trevor non-stop September 29 through October 3, before that on September 2 when he went AWOL, and then August 1 before that, just after their big damn happy ending.

“Monthly,” Michael mutters to himself, and maybe it’s the whiskey talking but he feels like he’s on to something. “It’s every month.” He pauses, looking down at his phone again, thumb hovering over the ‘CALL’ button. “What are you hiding from me, Trevor?” he mutters to himself. It would be November in a couple of days, which would mean it had been another month.

Michael wants to catch Trevor red-handed.

He storms to the kitchen, scribbles down a note and grabs his car keys, heading for his Tailgater. Maybe it _is_ the whiskey talking, but the only reasonable thing to do now is actually go and _talk_ to Trevor, despite the nervous feeling in his stomach and the voice at the back of his head telling him it’s not worth it.

Two hours into the drive to Sandy Shores, he’s surrounded by mountains, having left the lights and noise of Los Santos far behind. Michael’s phone starts ringing, interrupting his silent appreciation of the landscapes unfurling around him. “Michael, what the _fuck_!”

“Amanda,” Michael reasons, keeping his tired eyes on the road. She’d found the note he’d written, then. “I can explain--”

“Of course you fucking can. It’s _Trevor_ and he’s your _best friend_ and he _needs_ you,” she mocks, whining. “Where was he when our marriage was falling apart? Oh, yes, dragging you off to strip clubs and god knows where else to fucking help it along!”

Michael winces, pulling the phone away from his ear slightly as Amanda starts screeching. “Look, I might be gone for a few days--”

“I hope you get eaten by a fucking mountain lion,” Amanda sneers, and then the dial tone drones on. Michael hangs up the phone with a sigh. He turns the radio on, tuning in to a random station and trying to focus on the road.

It’s been a while since he’s driven out to the desert. Fuck, he can’t remember the last time he did, certainly not to visit Trevor. “Shit husband, shit father, shit friend,” he mutters to himself, as the rolling hills begin to give way to sand dunes. The sky turns from a dark blue to pinkish hues and then finally to darkness with the nearly-full moon illuminating the landscape. Michael can’t remember the last time he saw this many stars in the sky. A song comes on the radio about forgetting things and people getting hurt. He turns it off quickly.

His eyes begin to feel heavy, and Michael closes them for just a second. When he opens them again, a wolf is standing right in the middle of the road. Michael slams on the brakes, seat belt biting into his shoulder with the force. The car screeches to a stop, idling now, and Michael dares to look up again. The wolf is still there, still staring at the car with bared teeth, growling. Irritated, Michael blasts the horn once, sending the wolf loping out into the shrub again. “Fuck this,” he mutters, the shot of adrenalin the incident sent around his body ensuring he’ll stay fully awake for the rest of the drive.

It’s nearly midnight when Michael pulls up outside Trevor’s trailer. He slams the door as he steps out of the car. The Bodhi's not there but that doesn't stop him. “Trevor fucking Philips,” Michael shouts. “Get your goddamn ass out here or so help me I’ll burn your fuckin’ trailer to the ground,” he roars, because he might’ve been sipping from his hip flask on the drive up and the whiskey has turned to fire in his veins.

The chorus of cicadas and the distant hum of the highway are the only sounds that greet Michael. He climbs Trevor’s steps and rattles at the door, but it’s locked. “You fucking get out here,” he seethes, “and talk to me like a _fuckin’_ man.”

“He isn’t _there_ , Michael,” a voice says, and Michael whips around to find Ron in Trevor’s front yard. “He’s doing some collections for Oscar, won’t be back ‘til the morning.”

Michael grips the railing of Trevor’s run-down porch, leaning his weight onto it. “Is this what he’s been hiding from me? Gun running? That’s _it_?”

Ron shifts his weight from foot to foot, consistently. Wade creeps over from Ron’s trailer, looking suitably terrified. “He’s been a bit strange with all of us, really,” Ron explains, gesturing with his hands. “He keeps disappearing off for days at a time. His business can’t run itself, y’know.”

“What d'ya mean, _strange_?” Michael says, making air quotes with his fingers. Ron stutters and chokes.

“He’s been eating a lotta meat,” Wade says, interrupted by Ron shushing him impatiently.

“Meat? As in humans? That’s token Trevor behaviour,” Michael says, rolling his eyes. “Well, Ron, Trevor’s diet is hardly a state secret now, is it? Wade, go on.”

Wade fidgets under Michael’s intense glare, and Ron begins to stutter again. “Ron, you say another fucking word and you’ll be at the bottom of the Alamo Sea by the morning. I gotta know what’s wrong with Trevor, alright? He’s my best fucking friend,” Michael argues before deliberately softening his tone, as an adult would talk to a child. “Now, Wade. Be a good boy and tell me what you mean.”

“Well, I... uh... Trevor eats a lot of steak and chicken and stuff, sometimes he don' even cook it, and he’ll get real angry, like _angry_ angry instead’a just like normal angry, then he’ll just... go away somewhere. It’s kinda nice when he goes, really. I don’ know where he goes though. It’s not to my place, anyways.”

Michael raises his eyebrows at poor bastard, but says nothing more on the matter. “Ohhhh-kay,” he drawls, looking between the pair, Ron looking visibly more agitated than Wade. They’re hiding something, Michael knows that much, but he won’t push it any further tonight. “I’m gonna rent a motel room. Call me if you need me, or if our resident maniac turns up.”

He crosses Trevor’s yard to his car, not bothering to look back to see if Wade and Ron are still there. He can feel his eyes drooping, exhausted by the mystery that is quickly becoming Trevor Philips. Michael barely remembers parking or checking into the hotel, but he does remember the long, lonely howl of a wolf, somewhere out in the desert, just before he falls asleep.

*

Michael wakes up with his face smashed into his pillow, an incessant buzzing coming from the bedside table. He blinks around the sunlit room, having forgotten to close the curtains last night, before he realises the noise is coming from his phone.

“‘Ello?”

“Apparently you came to my trailer last night and threatened to raze it to the ground. Sounds like you’ve been spending too much time around me.”

 _Trevor_. Michael sits up in bed, pulling the covers around his waist and holding the phone to his ear. He’s never been gladder to hear that gruff voice.

“Yeah, well that’s funny considering you’ve been pretty much ignoring me for the last coupla months, and it took me driving to the middle of the fucking desert for you to bother to call me.” Michael knows he isn’t playing fair, but playing fair isn’t their thing, never was.

“Aw, Sugartits, did you miss me?” Trevor mocks. His words cut like a knife.

“Fuck you,” Michael retorts, because whenever Trevor gets under his skin, he gets hostile. “Are you actually home this time? If you’re gonna insult me at least let’s do it in person.”

“Fine. But hurry up, I got shit to do. Mostly sleeping.” Trevor hangs up.

Michael heaves a sigh, before getting out of bed and heading to the bathroom. It’s barely 9am but he can already feel the heat of this god-forsaken desert creeping up his spine. He takes a lukewarm shower to try and cool down, stepping out of it and wrapping himself in a towel before--

“Fuck.”

Michael’s never been good at impulse decisions, and his idea to drive four hours to the desert in the middle of the night meant he completely forgot to pack any kind of clothes or belongings. He redresses in last night’s clothes, slightly smelling of BO and already covered in sand. Trevor, despite being the personification of filth himself, would have a snarky comment or another if Michael turned up like this, if Michael’s last stint in the desert was anything to go by. “Fuck you, T,” Michael mutters under his breath, grabbing his car keys and deciding to make a quick trip to Harmony to pick up some new clothes.

He has a peculiar feeling that he’s going to be stuck in this desert for a while.

When he gets to Checkout!, he chooses a few t-shirts, a few pairs of shorts and some boxers, nearly laughing when the cashier rings it all up because it’s _that_ much cheaper than just a single shirt at Ponsonbys.

Finally, after changing into his new clothes at the store, Michael is on his way to meet Trevor for the first time in months. He feels nervous of all things, shaking his head at himself as he speeds through the desert, the sky blue and endless above him. “It’s just T. The same fucking T who probably still hates your guts. It’s just him,” he mutters to himself as he pulls up in front of Trevor’s trailer, the Bodhi parked just around the corner.

Michael finds himself hesitating, glancing over at the empty porch. “Fucking grow a pair, Townley,” he mumbles before he gets out of the car into the searing heat of the desert. He crosses Trevor’s front yard so he can’t give himself the chance to run away like a coward, and pushes open the trailer door as soon as he climbs the steps.

The trailer hasn’t changed a single bit since he was hiding out here three months ago; if anything, it’s in even more of a mess. Trevor is perched on the edge of his table, a bottle of Piẞwasser in his hand.

“You’re late,” is the only greeting Michael gets.

“Yeah, well, driving to the desert in the middle of the night was hardly one of my best decisions. I forgot to bring clean clothes.”

“I honestly do not know how you lived to forty, Mikey,” Trevor says, silently offering Michael a beer. It’s only just 10am, but he takes it anyway; he feels like he’s gonna need it for this conversation. He opens it on the edge of the table like Trevor taught him to when they were younger. “So what brought you out to beautiful Sandy Shores then?”

A brief pause. Michael leans against Trevor's refrigerator, staring him down. “You,” Michael says, and it’s loaded like a gun. “You aren’t talking to me, T. Remember when we used to be best friends?”

“Back before you faked your death, or after that?” Trevor shoots back, sober as anything. Maybe Michael had been viewing their relationship through rose-tinted glasses. He takes a gulp of his beer.

“Come off it, T. I mean... after I fucked up, and you said that you could live with me having fucked up, and me _still_ being fucked up... I...” Michael throws his hands out helplessly, before taking a swig of his beer. “I fucking miss you, and you’re being a fucking brick wall and not responding to any of my calls, my texts. You think that’s fair?”

"You think you can come back into my life after ten years, ten _fucking_ years and become my fucking babysitter?" Trevor says, standing up. "Shit. Happened. I got my own life now, you got your family. Why are you so obsessed with knowing every detail in my life?"

Trevor is right up in Michael's face now, and the pair stare each other out before Michael turns away. "Because I care, T. And I wanna make it right again."

"You can make it right by fucking back off to your stripper wife and your perfect fucking family," Trevor says quietly, looking into Michael's eyes a final time before he turns away. Michael sees it, though, the hurt in Trevor's eyes. His own guilt is enough to live with, he doesn't need the burden of Trevor's hurt too, but he will force himself to carry it in penance.

"I know you... I know you don't want to trust me again," Michael says, and where the fuck did this lump in his throat come from? "But I ain't leaving you this time, I ain't leaving you with whatever bullshit is fucking you up like this. This isn't you, man! The Trevor I know is normally out setting fire to something or someone, not here, not like... not like this."

Trevor has turned his back by now, slowly sauntering through his kitchen and back again before he ends up in front of Michael once more. "Mmmkay. Let's go."

"What?" Michael asks, and Trevor finally looks at him again.

"Breakfast. We ain't having a heart to heart on an empty stomach."

*

Trevor is silent on the drive to the diner, offering no further clues as to what is on his mind. He makes it quite clear that he doesn’t want to talk when he turns up Channel X to the point that Michael can’t hear the traffic over the crunching guitars.

The Pacific Ocean soon swings into view and all Michael does is raise his eyebrows. When they pull up in the lot of Hookies, though, Trevor finally shuts off the radio and speaks.

“Seafood?” Trevor asks.

“What?”

Trevor sighs. “Seafood. Do. You. Like. Seafood. It’s not a hard fucking question, Mikey,” he nearly spits out, before he softens a little. “They do breakfast and shit too, if ya like. Pumpkin pie’s good at this time of year.”

“It’s fine,” Michael says, and it’s back to the old days again, when they couldn’t fucking talk to each other without stumbling around awkward silences. He clears his throat as they climb out of the truck. “I thought those bikers kept bullying you out of here.”

Trevor laughs gruffly, and the sound warms Michael’s chest for a moment. “They fucking wish. It’s like spring cleaning, honestly. They don’t have the brain cells between them to consider the thought that I _know_ where they all live.”

Michael smiles at that, as Trevor opens the door to the diner and doesn’t hold it for him. It swings back into him, the handle hitting him in the side. They get a table with a view of the highway and the ocean beyond it. “God, I’m fucking starving,” Michael says, and Trevor doesn’t look up from the menu, just grunts in agreement.

“Can I get you two anything?” a young waitress asks, wearing a dirty pinafore and popping pink bubble-gum. She twirls the pencil around her fingers.

“Uh, yeah, I’ll get a coffee, thanks,” Michael says.

Trevor hums, as if it’s the greatest decision of his life. “Oh fine, I’ll have a coffee too. And will you put a little bit of something special in it for me, sweetheart?” Trevor gives his most predatory grin, and the girl scuttles away, blushing.

“You scared her off.” Michael doesn’t want to know what the ‘something special’ is.

“She’s had worse,” Trevor says dismissively, looking down at the menu. “I’m thinking a burger. Or maybe steak. Maybe both. Imagine that, Mikey, a steak burger. The culmination of American values and culture, eh?”

“Would’ve thought pancakes and maple syrup were more your thing, T, but I’m not a stereotyping asshole.” Michael smirks over the top of his menu to show there’s no heat. For a moment, Trevor looks like he’s going to rise to it, but he lets it slide this time.

“I thought you were mad at me,” Trevor says quietly, glaring at the waitress as she delays Michael’s reply by setting their mugs of coffee down on the table. She apologises like she doesn’t mean it and walks away.

“I am,” Michael says, looking at the white particles of whiteness floating at the top of Trevor’s cup. He doesn’t think it’s sugar. “You’re not off the hook yet.”

“Then why are you being _nice_ to me?” He says the word like it’s poisoned. “I know you’re a two-faced snake but this is new even for you.” Trevor raises his voice again and the waitress glances at them from behind the bar. Michael ignores her.

“Because you’re my _friend_ ,” Michael hisses, hoping to quieten Trevor once more. “Friends are allowed to be pissed with friends every now and then, especially when _certain_ friends are hiding secrets from other friends.”

“What if certain _friends_ are hiding secrets from their other _friends_ because it’s good for them, hmm?” Trevor says, growling a little in his frustration. “Because it might get them killed if certain friends said too much?”

Michael puts his menu down. “Who are you in trouble with, T? Tell me and we’ll take them down together.”

The silence stretches between them. Michael maintains eye contact, refusing to back down when he’s _this_ close to knowing something, anything.

“Are you ready to order?”

Michael sighs, looking up at the waitress. She’s barely just eighteen, but carries herself as if she’s queen of the place. “Thanks for that,” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Look,” she says, loudly smacking her gum. “I get paid two dollars an hour and I got a million other tables to look after too. So you gonna order or are you gonna stare into his eyes all day?”

Trevor claps his hands together, grinning. “Feisty! I like it.” He glances at the menu again. “I’ll have the Hookies burger, with extra fries and an extra patty.”

Michael rolls his eyes. “I’ll have the seafood platter, thanks.”

The waitress raises one eyebrow. “Are you sure? It’s meant to be for two people. They’re pretty big portions.”

Michael frowns up at her. “And I’m hungry. What’s your point?”

The girl rolls her eyes. “I’m just saying, older guys have to look out for their waistlines when they get older,” she says, turning away. “That’s all,” she calls over her shoulder.

“Bitch,” Michael mutters under his breath, looking at Trevor. “What’s up with you?”

“She called you _fat_! Who the fuck does she think she is? That’s _my_ job. I should go over there, cut off her limbs and feed them to her one by one, _then_ we’ll see who needs to watch their waistline.” Trevor clutches at the edge of the table like he’s going to rip it out with his bare hands. Michael watches the tattoos on his knuckles dance under the strain.

“Cool it, T, no one needs to be killed,” Michael says, and he gets a sudden urge to pry Trevor’s fingers off the table so he doesn’t hurt himself. He quells that thought. “She’s just a stupid little girl.”

Trevor glares in her direction one more time before relaxing, grunting under his breath. “You’re not fat, though. How rude is that? You’re a man in the prime of his life, you don’t need to worry about what the fuck your waistline looks like, for fucks sakes.”

Michael raises his eyebrow at Trevor but doesn’t provoke him; he seems to be a lot more of a loose cannon today than he usually is, and Michael doesn’t fancy adding fuel to that specific fire. However, he’s willing to create an inferno of Trevor to find out his secret.

“So, where were we?” Michael asks nonchalantly after a few minutes of people-watching and sipping at their respective drinks.

“Fuck you,” Trevor growls, sipping at his coffee. Michael remembers when they used to get steaming hot cups of takeout coffee in the winters in North Yankton, to warm their hands through their gloves when they were staking jobs out. He shakes the memory off.

“C’mon, T, I’m beggin’ here. You can trust me with anything. Whoever this person is... fuck, whatever you’ve done, I’m here, I’m by your side. If it’s that big, we could even ask Franklin or Les--”

“We are asking _no one_ ,” Trevor interrupts lowly. “ _Especially_ not Franklin. He doesn’t need to be involved in this... this _shit_. Neither do you. You’re a fucking asshole but you’re still my friend, can’t believe it myself but that’s the truth. I’m not telling _you_ because you, one, don’t need to fucking know, two, don’t need to die _again_ , and three, don’t need to fucking know.”

A different waitress appears with their meals, setting them down quickly and then leaving them in peace. “Holy shit, how much food are you eating?” Michael says when he sees Trevor’s plate, thinking back to what Wade recalled last night, about Trevor having a huge appetite before disappearing. Was he going on massive benders once a month? Some kind of organised drug fest? Michael closes his eyes for a second, opening them again to see Trevor wolfing into his meal. Michael laughs nervously, eating his own meal at a slower pace. “Slow down, T. Jesus, there’s no rush.”

Trevor simply makes a noise in his chest, swallowing his mouthful. “I’m gonna eat quickly, then I’m gonna go back to my place and sleep, and you’re gonna stop bothering me.”

“Aw, poor Trevor, didn’t get a good night’s sleep,” Michael mocks, angrily shovelling down a mouthful of food. “Ron said you were out running guns. Maybe if you took care of yourself more, this wouldn’t have happened.”

Trevor wipes his mouth on the back of a tattooed hand. “Too fucking bad. Merryweather were in the wrong place at the wrong time and I decided to, y’know, pity them.”

Michael cocks his head. Something about Trevor’s blasé attitude is off. “Ron said you were out working for Oscar.”

Trevor laughs through gritted teeth. “Oh, Ron. Wait ‘til I skin the fucker.”

“So that’s the secret? You’re secretly fucking over Merryweather? On a full moon with shitloads of light to illuminate you, no less. Nice photographic evidence for the pigs. Fuckin’ A, T, fuckin A’.” Michael throws his napkin down onto his plate, food now abandoned in his anger, and he sits back in his seat.

Trevor remains silent, white knuckles wrapped around his cutlery. Michael reads the ‘FUCK YOU’ written across those knuckles (and Trevor’s face), but his mouth won’t fucking switch off.

“You? Against Merryweather? Fucking deathwish. You always were a lone wolf, weren’t you T?”

The chatter of the diner fades away to nothing, as Trevor looks up at Michael with dark, tired eyes. Michael feels his heart speeding up in his chest, and suddenly everything makes sense. The anger. The hunger. The monthly disappearances. “Full moons,” Michael says to himself. “They were all full moons.”

Trevor bolts.

Michael struggles out of his seat, throwing the first bill out of his wallet (a fifty, way too much) down on the table and sprinting out of the diner. Trevor jumps over the door of his truck to get in quicker, starting and revving the engine before Michael’s even in the lot. “Trevor!” Michael shouts as his friend starts to pull away, before he groans in frustration. Looking around, he jumps into a nearby convertible, sat in the sun with its top down. Michael can hear shouting behind him as he wires it, but he couldn’t give less of a fuck right now. Finally, the engine roars to life and Michael guns it out onto the southbound highway, swerving across lanes of traffic as he does so.

The red Bodhi is violently weaving through cars up ahead, and Michael floors it to catch up. “Trevor!” he yells when he draws up close enough. “C’mon, T! Let’s talk this out like men!”

“Fuck _off_ , Mikey,” Trevor yells back. They enter the tunnel under Fort Zancudo, and the Bodhi is at its maximum speed. Michael easily draws along next to it, forcing traffic to swerve out of their way.

“I’m here for you, T! Don’t shut me out again!” Michael shouts, cursing as he nearly rear-ends a sixteen wheeler, slowing down to manoeuvre around it. The tunnel ends and they open up onto the bridge over Lago Zancudo, with Trevor still racing ahead. Michael can see him bend down in his cab slightly, and by the time he works out what’s happening, a gunshot shatters his windscreen, rendering Michael road-blind. “For fuck’s sake,” he groans, punching out the shards of glass so he can see again, bloodying his knuckles in the process.

“That one was a warning shot!” Trevor calls, almost teasingly, swinging a sharp left at the end of the bridge onto Route 68. Michael opens the glove compartment on a whim, whooping to himself when he finds the owner’s pistol tucked away, loaded with a magazine. Michael cocks it and aims with his right hand through the broken windshield, hitting his target when he pulls the trigger; Trevor’s truck swerves right as his rear right tyre shreds itself. Michael repeats the process with the left one, taking another bullet to his hood as he does so, before Trevor finally pulls onto a dirt track and skids to a halt.

Michael jumps out of his car as Trevor does the same, both aiming their guns at each other, both with their fingers on the trigger. Michael thinks back to North Yankton mark two and how Trevor’s gun probably isn’t empty this time.

“You had to go and stick your fucking nose in it, didn’t ya Mikey,” Trevor growls, rolling his shoulders to express himself as his hands hold his weapon. “You know what I am now. You thought I was a monster before, but oh no, I’m much, much worse now. You gonna put me out of my misery? Put me down like the dog I am? You don’t have the balls.”

“Fuck you, Trevor. You think I couldn’t do it? Fuck. You.” Michael spits onto the floor. “I bet you don’t have the fucking heart to do it either. What’s stopping me from going and telling, hey? I could squeal to the cops, they won’t want a fucking _werewolf_ prowling around in the wild, would they? Not when they find out it’s Trevor fucking Philips of all people. C’mon, T. Stop me. Pull the fucking trigger. Or are you gonna run away like last time?”

Trevor throws his gun into the bed of his truck, shifting his feet to a fighting stance, with his fists raised in front of him. “Let’s settle this like men, you said.” Trevor’s imitation of Michael’s voice is nearly spot on. “So let’s fucking do that. Put your gun down. Or are you too chicken? Gonna call in Davey boy to save your ass again?”

Michael shouts, throwing down his pistol and going in for a swinging right hook, but Trevor is there before him, ducking it easily and going in for an uppercut. It connects and Michael bites his tongue with the force of it, his mouth filling with blood. Fuelled by his rage and distress, he punches Trevor in the gut, eliciting a pained noise from him, before dealing blows to his shoulders and back as he doubles over in agony.

Trevor uses the height difference to his advantage and Michael doesn’t see it coming when Trevor football tackles him to the floor, winding him in the process. As he gasps for breath, head throbbing from where it bounced against the rocky track, Trevor picks up Michael’s discarded pistol and presses it square between his eyes.

“Run,” Trevor says, and Michael can’t even blink, he’s so terrified. _This is it. This is it._ “Run and don’t ever come back. I’m dangerous, you fuckin’ hear me? Huh?” Trevor presses the gun into Michael’s skin. “I _will_ kill you. I was fine until you came back from the fucking dead, and now I can’t rein it in. So fuck off, and don’t come back.”

Trevor stares at Michael for a second, before shoving him by the shoulders and getting up, dropping the gun. Michael coughs, rubbing at his head as he sits up, and then stands. “Fine. I’ll go.”

“Don’t come back,” Trevor says, getting into his wrecked truck.

“I won’t.” Michael replies angrily. “Good fucking riddance.”

He wonders if Trevor can tell if he’s lying.

*

The convertible dies a few hours later, a combination of low fuel and a bullet-riddled engine. Michael had been doing laps of the Alamo Sea in order to try and forget _everything_ , including (but not limited to) the taste of blood in his mouth and the memory of the hatred in Trevor’s eyes. He was so absorbed in listening to the radio that he didn’t even notice the low fuel light blinking at him, or the smoke beginning to slowly stream out from under the hood. He ditches the car at the side of a dirt track high in the foothills of Raton Canyon. The afternoon sun is hot on his back now that the wind isn’t whipping past the car anymore. Michael takes the pistol and a bottle of water he found in the trunk with him.

Climbing down to the edge of the river, Michael sits himself down on a shady rock, the gun on one side and the water on another. He takes a gulp of it, not trusting the toxic water rushing out of the Alamo Sea, rinsing the water around his mouth and spitting the now pink liquid into the grass beside him. He gulps the rest of the bottle down before he crushes the empty plastic, throwing it down into the river below.

Michael has an idea. Fishing his phone out of his shorts pocket, he disregards the ‘critically low battery’ warning before dialling Amanda’s cell phone.

Of course, it goes to voicemail.

“Amanda, baby,” Michael says, squinting up at the sun through the trees above him. “It’s so fucked up out here. You wouldn’t... you wouldn’t believe me if I told you the crazy shit that’s happened. But it’s got to stop. I’m ending him, Amanda, I’m sick of all this... this _shit_. You’re right. He’s bad news.” Michael sighs, looking down to the river again, the water beating over the rocks. “Look. I--”

His phone beeps, and he pulls it away from his ear to see that it’s ran out of battery. “Fuckin’ A,” he hisses under his breath before pocketing it again. He lies back on the rock, wincing when his head touches the ground; he probably has concussion from that knock earlier, something he was well acquainted with when he used to play football. He’s got a headache, now that he thinks about it, and his body aches all over from the stupid fist fight he got himself in against Trevor. Fist fights with a werewolf probably wasn’t one of his brightest ideas. He sighs, closing his eyes for a couple of minutes, just to alleviate the pain.

*

Michael gasps awake to find the world around him is dark now, the rocky landscape and rushing water illuminated only by the bright moonlight. “Fuck,” he says, stumbling to his feet, grabbing his pistol as he does so, trying to orient himself with his now monochrome surroundings. He pauses for a moment, listening; there must’ve been a noise to wake him that sharply, but after a couple of exhales, the river still bubbles on and Michael can’t hear a thing.

He can’t stay here, he knows that much. He climbs back onto the road, looking forlornly at the broken down convertible before heading east, keeping the Alamo Sea in sight. He’ll head to Harmony, or even Sandy Shores if he has to, jack a car and get the fuck out of this desert.

But he’s got unfinished business and he’s tired of running away from his problems.

The first time he hears the howl of a wolf, Michael stiffens up, bracing himself against the nearest tree as he stills and _listens_. It raises the hair on his arms and he rubs at them to rid himself of the odd feeling. The dreadful noise sounds as if it’s coming from down in the dunes of the Grand Senora Desert, and Michael decides he’s going to go down there and shoot the fucking thing in its face.

He’s mostly insulted about it all, to be honest. The fact that Trevor didn’t trust him with the knowledge that he was a werewolf, as if his day job of being a rampaging, borderline psychopathic career criminal was any worse. It wasn’t even much of a stretch to connect the two, and Michael could see the similarities. He kicks a rock along as he walks down the track, completely devoid of any traffic at this time of night. Then, there’s the problem of Trevor now wanting Michael to leave him alone. They were _just_ on good terms again, after nine long years of presuming each other dead, and a few short months of being _okay_. He doesn’t want to run anymore, he’s tired of it; he just wants them to get along once more. But if that’s not going to happen? Well.

Michael turns a corner in the road and movement catches his eye below him where the desert begins to turn into mountain. The wolf is prowling along, sniffing at the ground and occasionally raising its head to look around. Michael can see the moonlight reflecting off its teeth from here; it looks a lot larger than any regular wolf or coyote. It could kill him easily, rip his throat out and leave him for dead.

Or maybe it would make him suffer, slowly dissecting him limb by limb. Isn’t that what Trevor threatened to do to the waitress in the diner? Who says he wouldn’t carry on his sadistic tendencies in his wolf form, too?

Michael swallows, crouching down behind a rock. He’d prefer a sniper rifle, but he’s not a bad shot with a pistol either. The wolf is maybe a hundred feet from him now, he could easily make the shot, could just--

The wolf looks up at him, bright yellow eyes widening and then narrowing after a second. It bares its teeth but stands its ground, paws firmly planted on the floor. Michael’s finger twitches on the trigger, before he hears rustling in the undergrowth behind him. He turns his head to look.

“Fuck.”

A mountain lion growls at him, initially stalking towards him but soon breaking into a run. He fires off a wayward shot at it, trying to scare it away, but it continues to advance. Michael turns his back and makes a break for it, knowing that he’s sealed his fate now, thrashing through the undergrowth to climb back up to the track. He always was one to run away from things instead of facing them, and oh how his darling wife will laugh at that. He regrets the decision to run when he trips on a tree root and faceplants the earth, gun skittering along the ground out of arm’s reach. Michael clenches his fists, waiting for the still-growling big cat to rip his throat out.

It doesn’t happen.

Instead, he hears a low barking sound. He lifts his head and turns it in time to see Trevor’s wolf leap upon the mountain lion and bite its neck, shaking its body about until it submits and falls limp between his jaws. Michael stares at it, rolling onto his elbows and shuffling backwards through the dirt on them. Trevor bites further into the lion’s neck, ripping the flesh from it and chewing at it slowly, still staring at Michael.

He takes the hint and flees.

*

The sun is starting to rise over Sandy Shores when Michael arrives back at Trevor’s trailer, bleeding, bruised and exhausted. He limps up the steps, ankle already swelling up, joints creaking, and breathes a sigh of relief when he finds the door unlocked. Easing himself down onto the sofa (and avoiding the sticky patches), Michael takes a moment to reflect on the last 36 hours.

What had he expected to find when he’d arrived in Sandy Shores in the dead of night? Trevor, probably, and not his two friends alluding to something Michael would’ve thought impossible. Now, he’s not so sure that anything is impossible.

Trevor saved his life, no doubt about it; no one has ever survived a mountain lion attack. Less than twenty-four hours ago, Michael would never have expected that to happen. Ever.

Michael rubs a hand over his head, helping himself to one of Trevor’s beers. He’s not even sure why he’s here, in Trevor’s trailer, despite the other man both telling him and _showing_ him that he wanted Michael gone, or dead, maybe both. Even if Trevor still wants that, then Michael will go, but only once he’s got his answers.

“You look like shit.”

Michael looks up from his beer bottle to Trevor, standing in the doorway of his trailer. He’s just wearing tracksuit pants and work boots, his tattooed chest covered in both mud and blood, just like Michael’s clothes. “So do you,” Michael says, wearily. He sips at his beer again.

Trevor grunts, crossing his trailer to pick a beer out of the crate, too. He leans against his kitchen counters, taking long drafts from the bottle. Michael gets a sense of déjà vu; they did this only yesterday morning, when everything was fragile but _okay_. Michael doesn’t have a clue what state anything is in now.

Trevor gargles a swig of his beer before spitting it into the sink. “Fuck. Big cats taste like shit. Who knew?”

Michael looks at Trevor blankly, as Trevor challenges him to say something. Anything. “You saved my life.”

Trevor rolls one shoulder in a shrug. It’s the shoulder with the memorial tattoo on it. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“You wanted me dead yesterday afternoon, then last night you saved my life. You could’ve watched me die right there, but you didn't. What’s up with that?” Michael tries not to get annoyed, but he can’t help it, because it’s all just too much.

“Because I _care_ , Mikey, alright?” Trevor shouts, arms spread wide, beer sloshing out of his bottle. He pauses for a second like that, as if he can’t believe he just said it out loud. “I fucking care. I didn’t want you to know because I get dangerous, more than I usually am, before you make a fucking comment. I get real unpredictable, kinda violent,” Trevor says, using jazz hands to illuminate his point. “I like killing stuff when I’m a wolf! Can you imagine?”

Michael furrows his brow. “How long’s this been going on for, T?”

Trevor slumps back against the counter. “Few years now. After North Yankton. The meth kinda helped, kind of stupefied it so when I was a wolf, I didn’t kill people, just kind of rolled around like a big dog.” Trevor snorts. “But I tried to clean up a bit when you and Franklin came on the scene, when we started doing bigger jobs that I couldn’t fuck up, and the wolf shit got worse again. I get urges more often, now.”

“Urges?” Michael’s hesitant to ask, raising an eyebrow before sipping his beer.

“To change, transform, whatever you want to call it. I worked it out when I came off the ice that I could do it whenever I wanted, really, though I can’t help full moons. It’s kind of a given that they’ll wipe a day or two off my schedule.”

“That’s what I worked out. That it was every month, and then Wade said something about eating lots and getting angry, and on the ride out it was nearly a full moon and I saw a...” Michael raises his eyebrows to himself before he looks at Trevor. “I’m gonna presume that was you.”

“Yup,” Trevor says, setting his already-empty beer bottle down on the counter. Michael is barely halfway through his. “Was trying to work out a way to make transformation before full moon less painful. It didn’t work. Let’s not talk about it,” Trevor says, waving a hand to dismiss that train of thought.

Michael sinks back into the sofa, rolling his bruised ankle and wincing. “That looks fucked,” Trevor says, and Michael sighs irritably. “Do you want me to look at it?”

“No, thank you, _Mom_ ,” Michael says, and Trevor grunts at the word. Michael closes his eyes and tips his head back. He could quite easily nap, having trekked across half the fucking desert last night to escape a goddamn werewolf. “What happens now?”

“What kind of question is that? That’s the kind of thing the hot young protagonist would say in one of your shitty movies, where they kiss and make up, hold hands, and drive off into the sunset?” Trevor asks.

Michael smirks, eyes still closed. “Fuck off,” he says. He opens his eyes, tipping his head forward again to look at Trevor. “I mean, as in, do you still want me dead?”

Trevor feigns surprise. “What a conundrum! Well, you’ve already died once, that was kind of shitty enough, and as long as you don’t squeal to the cops like _the last time_ you died--”

“Answer the fucking question, T.”

“Yes.” Trevor pauses. “Actually, no. Nah. Can’t deal with all the bullshit that comes with you dying. And I still won’t be able to wear a pretty dress to your funeral, because I’ll be the prime suspect.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Michael says, but he’s laughing this time. Trevor’s watch bleeps, and he looks at it.

“Would you fucking believe it, it’s October 31st.” Trevor pauses for a second when Michael doesn’t get it immediately. “It’s _Halloween_ , Mikey. And Sandy Shores has a new resident monster.”

“You’ve always been a monster,” Michael quips back. “Even before you became a fucking werewolf. What are you gonna do, go scare the shit out of a load of teenagers?”

Trevor’s eyes light up.

Michael shakes his head, eyes wide. “Oh no. No, T. That’s a bad idea.”

Trevor grins, then, one of those grins that normally signals the start of a lot of trouble. “Oh, _boy_ , this is gonna be _a_ lot of fun. Think of it as an adventure, Mikey.”

Michael waves his hands across his body in dismissal. “I am _not_ coming with you. No. It’s not happening.”

“Aw, what’s the problem, Mikey?” Trevor leers. “Someone scared of the big bad wolf?” He stomps his foot against the floor of the trailer and beats his chest, letting out a long howl, and all Michael can do is laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> If you caught onto the "North Yankton mark 2" comment and the implication that Trevor's gun was empty during that cutscene, you can read more about that theory on [fangfero's blog](http://fangfero.tumblr.com/post/131635743479/the-gun-wasnt-loaded). I hope you enjoyed the story, let me know if you did! :)


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